The Bridge

45

I unlocked Bolger’s cell and brought him into the main office and sat him down in a chair next to the potbellied stove.

“There ya go, Bolger,” I said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Virgil was sitting behind the desk, leaning back in the squeaky banker’s chair. He had his boots crossed on top of the corner of the desk and a cup of coffee in his hand. Chastain was sitting in a chair that backed up to the front window of the office.

“How you feeing, Bolger?” Virgil said.

Bolger didn’t say anything.

Virgil nodded.

“Want some coffee?”

Bolger nodded.

I poured him some coffee and handed it to him.

“Tell me about the dynamite,” Virgil said.

Bolger snapped his chin to his chest and furrowed his brow as he shook his head.

“Dynamite?” he said.

“Yep,” Virgil said.

“Don’t know nothing about no dynamite.”

“You don’t?”

“No,” Bolger said. “Don’t.”

“So, the judge will be here sometime soon,” Virgil said. “The choice is yours.”

“Well,” Bolger said. “Don’t know nothing about no dynamite.”

“What do you want to tell us?” Virgil said.

Bolger looked at Virgil and shook his head a little.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Virgil said.

“I don’t got nothing to say.”

Virgil nodded a little, took a sip of his coffee and set it on the desk.

“If I did have something to say,” Bolger said. “I don’t, but let’s say I did. How is that gonna help me?”

“Like Everett offered,” Virgil said. “We’ll let the judge know you provided us with important information. The good judge will consider your good deed when you stand before him, facing him, on attempted robbery and murder charges.”

“I didn’t rob or murder no one,” Bolger said.

Virgil nodded.

“Like I said,” Virgil said. “Attempted robbery and murder.”

“Need to be goddamn clear on that,” Bolger said.

“We’re real clear on that,” I said. “And we’re also clear on the fact you tried to kill me, a United States territorial deputy marshal, which you will serve a minimum of five years for, just for that. The attempted robbery and murder charges on the other two fellas, Grant and Elliott, will be separate.”

“Shit,” Bolger said with a point out to the street. “Them two silly fellers, it was all their fault.”

“How’s that?” Virgil said.

“I was working for them,” Bolger said. “Hell, it was a job I was okay with. I like driving a rig.”

“That right?” Virgil said.

Bolger nodded.

“But they didn’t pay me like they said they was gonna do. Hell, I’m a good worker,” Bolger said defensively.

Virgil knew who Bolger was. We’d seen men like Bolger a hundred times over the years. The west was full of them, men who came from a bad place, and as life carried on, things only got worse for them. Hardship and heartache were at the core of who they were. Bolger was a man of a simple way, with simple means, simple ambition, and simple instincts. A good enough worker until payday, then he’d drink and gamble and whore his money away. Guys like Bolger were always in and out of jail, drunks mostly, drunks who are just one bad shot away from Hell.

“I don’t got time for your bullshit about you working, Bolger,” Virgil said. “You boys hired on to sneak dynamite up there to the river bridge.”

Bolger shook his head.

“Did not,” he said.

“Bullshit,” Virgil said.

Bolger shook his head.

“You did it,” Virgil said.

“No,” Bolger said with conviction. “I did not.”

“Don’t you lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Bolger was flustered. He shook his head hard.

“You did it,” Virgil said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Bullshit.”

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“Bullshit!”

“I didn’t,” he said. “Ballard did!”